However improbable
by I'm Nova
Summary: A case changes John and Sherlock's definition of impossible and forces them to deal with the consequences. Here be wolves.
1. Chapter 1

_A.N. Let's Write Sherlock's challenge 11 is divided in three major branches: Sci-Fi, Fantasy and Monster. I already wrote a story each for the first two branches, and now am completing the triptych. First chapter is John's point of view._

However improbable

I had always known that Sherlock would be the death of me someday (by proxy, of course; he wasn't a murderer). But I had never factored in – not even after Baskerville – that something quite like this could happen.

We had been contacted by the relative of a young girl whose brutal death had found no explanation satisfying enough for our client. It had been chalked up to rabid strays – as she was literally half-eaten – but she worked with dogs and the relative was sure she'd know how to deal with them. Sherlock had connected to her death a few other similar cases which had happened on a widespread area, all too strangely timed for it to be really the work of wild dogs.

Probably a serial killer, he'd proclaimed enthusiastically, that then gave the body to his (surely abused and half-feral) dogs to mess up the traces. Perhaps – considering a few recently buried bodies dug out and ripped into in a nearby graveyard – a cannibal who had finally decided to get himself some fresh meat.

That the case had Sherlock beaming wasn't a surprise. The dogs' use had ensured that New Scotland Yard and the professional forensics didn't even start to suspect someone's involvement, and this criminal promised to be clever and ruthless. Even if eventually we discovered cleverness had very little part in the killings, so in that it was a disappointment – I guess.

It was time for our murderer to hunt again (he had an obvious system), and Sherlock and I were hoping to stop him, since we had a clear enough idea of his modus operandi and patterns. Finally, one bright night, we stumbled on a crime scene. Well, when I say crime scene...we slipped inside a nightmare might be more adequate a description.

There was a dead body, of course, but the thing heartily biting into it wasn't a stray, nor indeed a dog of any kind. It had to be at least a wolf, going by its size alone. He raised bloody jaws from his meal and – very clearly – snarled, "Sod off. I'm not sharing."

I honestly have no idea if I would have obeyed such an order had I been alone, but Sherlock had frozen and was – as far as I could tell- trying to blink away what was happening. Which might not have been an altogether bad idea, I thought at the time.

But then the wolf (tail-less; weird which things stick in your head) looked up and grumbled, "Unless you're offering to be dessert. _Are_ you?" and leaped towards us, so willing him to disappear clearly wasn't working. I did the only sensible thing (I still maintain that). I shot him. I should have done so before, really, but I was too weirded out to act. Sadly, that didn't even slow him down. So, with no time to think, I just shoved Sherlock out of the way and braced for the impact.

A giant wolf jumping on you and then quite intent on trying to chew through your chest is bloody painful, let me tell you. I really thought I'd die. And the only thing going through my head was, "God, give him enough sense to run now." Vain hope, of course.

A moment later Sherlock was hissing, "Let him _go_," and attempting to bodily dislodge him from me. It annoyed the wolf, who turned on him, and for a moment I closed my eyes not to see the worst I feared would happen. But then I heard the sound of breaking glass, a blaring alarm and a mighty yowl.

Sherlock must have dodged, and so the wolf had ended breaking a shop window and lying half on top of a jewelry display. It rolled away hurriedly. Oh, right. Werewolf. Silver. I doubted that Sherlock would know that, but he'd seen the adverse reaction of the beast. He wasn't about to investigate the whys and hows. He took something from the display and chucked it to the snarling wolf. The very snarl was the ruination of the creature, because the projectile – skill or luck – lodged into its throat. We had a choking wolf, and soon a dying wolf, reverting to human form. Not that it saved him.

The second the monster stopped being a threat, Sherlock was by my side asking, "What do I do?" with a scared look on his face.

And now that I wasn't worried sick over him, I noticed that for someone bitten by a werewolf and supposed to be dying of blood loss, I felt considerably good. "Put pressure on the wound," I instructed anyway.

He did so, and a moment later whispered in amazement, "John? The wound is closing."

It really was, and soon I had only an ugly scar to show for it. "Let's go home," I said. Before the police arrived, alerted by the alarm, and accused us of robbery and murder.

When we were safely ensconced home, Sherlock declared, "We _must_ have been drugged. But how? When?"

"You figure it out. I'm going to sleep and hope that this turns out to be a nightmare," I replied.

Which it didn't. Of course not. Just my luck. I had to point it out the following morning, panic in my voice. "Sherlock. I've got the scar."

"Was it all true, then? How can it be?" he countered, sounding lost. But he must have decided that we couldn't both panic, because then he continued, "No matter. It's clearly not impossible, since it happened. People called chemists alchemists in the past, before the truth was understood. You are currently an unknown quantity, but we're going to figure you out. Don't worry, John."

"I'm not your fucking experiment," I growled, surprising the both of us.

"I just want to help, John," he said, subdued.

"Yeah, of course. Sorry. I...don't know why I lashed out like that." _Liar. _"Know what? Experiment away. I authorize you. At least you won't be bored."

Later, when DI Gregson came to talk about the two bodies and the weird theft, Sherlock dismissed him with a curt, "Otherwise busy." He was being as truthful as he could be. Gregson was rather put out at being refused, but had to give it up.

We researched, obviously concentrating on treatment of my...condition (and, to my insistence, contagion – the last thing I want is to contaminate Sherlock too). Sadly we had no reliable source, so we had to dig through a lot of veritable nonsense. Becoming a werewolf after sleeping outdoors with the moonlight shining on your face? "I'd have a Wolves Network," Sherlock remarked.

Some things were honestly weird (even considering how fantastical our life had become). Changing into a wolf by drinking water from a werewolf's footprint? Who would? ...On second thought, _Sherlock_. Well, that was one experiment we wouldn't be trying. I wouldn't let him. I would even stretch it to being careful that he does not drink from my mug, even after washing it.

In the end, as long as I don't attack him, flat sharing turns out to be surprisingly fine for infection's risk as long as I don't attack him. Only that isn't as obvious as it should be – not attacking him. I scare myself, but I'm really half a monster now. Things that would have made me barely roll my eyes before now elicit feral growls. Sherlock has started tiptoeing around me, trying not to set me off. It breaks my heart, but I don't tell him to stop walking on eggshells. He's just being necessarily careful.

Once, soon after my change, he tried snarling back at me when I lashed out, perhaps attempting to make me cower. Before I had consciously decided anything (that's what terrifies me; _It _takes the lead suddenly and completely) I had Sherlock – who didn't expect such an overboard reaction – bodily subdued on the floor, and he was spewing apologies, fear in his eyes. I didn't break any skin that time, but it was way too close for comfort.

After that, I tried telling him that I would find other accommodations – somewhere _alone –_ but Sherlock refused adamantly to agree to my project. "_It should have been me, _John. I'm not letting you go through this on your own," he declared earnestly. I tried telling him that he didn't have to – to think like that, to do any of this.

When my friend stubbornly insisted, meaningfully saying, "You don't get to have things your way, John. Not this time. Not about this," I relented. I was too grateful for his help – hell, for his very presence – to press the issue as I know I should have. I despised my weakness, but still I couldn't make myself leave him.

If not about that, I at least did what I had to do about something. I had a silver bullet created. I refused to become a monster. Sherlock knew – he's _Sherlock_, of course he knew even if I didn't tell him – but he never mentioned it.

As for remedies to my condition, we have tried the mildest ones (well, not that there's much mild in drinking plenty of vinegar). These did exactly nothing, but making me sick sometimes. Concerning the more vicious ones (such as piercing the subject's hands with nails), Sherlock, lead scientist that he was, refused to even consider them. That I asked seemed to make no difference.

"I'm not _torturing _you, John," he stated vibrantly.

I'd try them by myself, but I was likely to faint half-way through or otherwise become unable to complete the requirements, and then I would have accomplished exactly nothing but hurting myself and forcing Sherlock to take care of me.

I tried to explain to him that any agony would be worth it if it made safe for people to be around me again. To be honest, Sherlock was the only one who had ever set off the beast yet, but I spoke generally all the same.

My friend objected quietly that the wolf was likely to attack viciously if we tried to drive him out so brutally. I was forced to recognize that wasn't wrong, but still I wished to persuade him to attempt them. When Sherlock concluded, "and I would let it rip me apart for doing that to you," I dropped the matter. Christ, Sherlock. There was no reasoning with him when he got like that.

Another possibility that I was interested in was wolfsbane (there should be a reason for it to hold that name), but once again Sherlock was entirely adverse to trying it out. Aconitum napellus, aka wolfsbane, is a lethal poison for perfectly normal human beings, beside (perhaps) curing lycanthropy. Sherlock could tell me off the top of his head how many killers had used it in the past century and then continue with these murders' details if I so wished. He decreed that in no way he would be the one to accidentally kill me. I didn't mention that he'd likely be forced to kill me intentionally soon (well, I hoped to spare him that). The matter wasn't something Sherlock could be rational about, clearly, as odd as it sounded. At least not at the moment.


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: not mine, don't sue. Sherlock's point of view this time._

Our first month had almost ended, and I was no closer to resolving the issue. I had no solution to offer. Sherlock Holmes, failure.

I _knew_ that John wouldn't want to live as a monster, and it terrified me. I couldn't go back to my life before John. I surely couldn't revert to that bleak existence I experienced without my conductor of light. Not as a result of my own stupidity. _I_ had dragged John into that godawful case. He was trying to protect _me_, unreasonable as that was (surely I wasn't worth it; didn't John know?). I couldn't have him die because of it, and survive that knowledge.

I held onto a last hope. I couldn't treat his condition, not yet, but if we found a way to manage it adequately, perhaps he would consent to live anyway. I wasn't above pleading to obtain it.

When finally the full moon was upon us, in the afternoon I caught John staring at his gun. (I may or may not have invaded his bedroom.) I knew that the silver bullet was loaded. This was it.

"Please don't," tumbled hoarsely from my mouth.

"I'm not going to be a monster. Think of it like putting down a rabid dog," he said quietly.

"No, John! Nobody else will get put down._ Please_," I reiterated. Shameful slip of tongue, that 'else', but his words had sent my mind reeling back to Redbeard. I refused to feel that wretched helplessness again. Once was more than enough. I couldn't lose John too.

"What else can I do, Sherlock?" he asked, hopelessness colouring his voice.

"Let me try one last thing."

"What?" he queried, eyes shining with anticipation for me to be brilliant and make the problem disappear. I so wished that I could have.

"Trust me one last time, John," I entreated. I was worried that controlling him would not be deemed good enough, so I was purposefully vague. "If it comforts you, I'll even take the gun. If what I have in mind doesn't work, I'll kill you myself before I let you murder anyone. I swear," I relented. I would have, really. I would have followed him right after, but that didn't matter. He must have felt the honesty of my resolve, because he offered the gun to me without a word.

"Come back down," I requested softly. He complied and I made him tea, simply to let him think that I wanted to try some other potion, or maybe make a last-second attempt with wolfsbane (as if).

When the moon was about to rise, (how acutely we both were aware of it) he grit out, "It didn't work. _Shoot_, Sherlock!"

I was perfectly still. Betraying him in a way, yes, but I needed to try this.

"Shoot, goddammit!"

I simply stood between him and the flat's door.

He couldn't yell more at me, because he started changing. Going by his screams, soon turned into yowls, it must have been torturous., but it was mercifully short-lived. Soon I had a majestic gold and silver furred wolf in front of me. It stalked towards me. Time to make my attempt.

German lore says that to survive meeting a wolf you have to call his name three times and he'll turn back into a man. Danish legends suggest to scold the wolf if you meet one. Just that.

"John," I called, surprising myself with the steadiness of my voice.

"John."

"John."

"What?" he grumbled, annoyed – at least if I sussed out the correct emotion. I had trouble enough with them when it was humans I was reading.

"Where do you think you're going?" I asked boldly.

"Out," he answered simply, and oh, how much it resembled when he couldn't stand me anymore. If I had closed my eyes I could have believed he was only upset about the eyeballs in the microwave. Again.

"I can't let you. Not tonight," I stated firmly.

_ "Let me_?" he growled.

"John," I invoked again, hoping to appease him._ I believed in no God, so when exactly had his name become my prayer?_ "Why do you want to leave?"

"To hunt."

"There's nothing to hunt in London," I replied flatly.

"Oh, I'm sure I could find something," he said, sniffing loudly. This wasn't my flatmate. Not the kind John I was used to.

"There's nothing to hunt," I reiterated forcefully. Did that count as scolding? Because I had a feeling saying_ you bad dog_ wouldn't work.

"Repeating yourself, Sherlock?" And then, the wolf actually guffawed.

"If you're too slow to understand," I countered, managing to sound nonchalant. Then a reckless idea took over my brain, and I added, "You know, there's something I could agree to have you hunt."

"What?" the creature queried, excited, looking like he'd wag his tail if he had had one.

"Me. Give me ten minutes of head start and then come find me. But no getting distracted along the way, or I'll win too easily." The challenge should have kept him focused. And if he took the term hunt too literally and actually attacked me, I had always the gun.

"Run!" he barked, with a crooked grin.

I did, leaving the door ajar for him to follow me. It was a heady feeling, that chase. Soon he caught up with me, but it was obvious that he meant no harm. He snapped his jaws close to my heels, but I was under no delusion that he couldn't have bitten me if he wanted. It felt like a cross between playing with Redbeard and leading John in pursuit of some criminal's trail, and I kept from giggling with sheer giddiness only because it would waste breath. I needed it to run.

I did my best to keep our path as out of sight as I could. It would not do to scare people, and to someone oblivious, John could still be a fearsome vision. I found him wonderful, even changed, but I knew him. I tried to keep us out of Mycroft's ever watchful eyes too, but there were simply too many cameras in London. I realized soon that was impossible. I would have to explain. Probably to fight for the right to be by John's side. Overbearing jerk. We ran for hours, and I took advantage of the occasion to test John's agility in this form (which was remarkable). Finally, I led him back home.

"Should have hunted seriously," John said the moment we were back in the flat. "So hungry."

I had expected that, and prepared accordingly. So before he could regret anymore I took the meat I had bought earlier (without his knowing, as it would have given away my intention to manage his transformation) out of the bridge. A few sausages would make a decent entrée while I cooked the rest. I was adamant on cooking, trying to maintain as much human customs as I could even with John in such a shape.

He was pleasantly surprised (I don't think he considered me able of such thoughtfulness...or cooking at all). Soon, though, he shocked me in turn.

He was emptying his second plate, when he off-handedly remarked, "You're really a good mate."

I almost burned myself. I was still cooking, because surely transforming and running around he had consumed a good amount of energy. Then I told myself that I had been silly. Just because he looked like this he wouldn't use words as if they concerned a real wolf. "Mate as in fellow?" I asked anyway.

He huffed. "Mate as in life partner. In every sense." And then volunteered, "Wolves mate for life."

"John...are you asking?" I queried, more shakily than I would have liked. How much of my friend was awake inside this creature? Could I take his word to mean what my doctor really wanted?

"I'm stating," John countered. That had me flopping into the nearest chair. "Everyone knows," he added, leaning his head on my knees and effectively trapping me.

"And you always deny it," I replied softly. It positively irked John. Why the change of heart?

"Not me. The idiot," he barked.

So I had my answer. John and the wolf had different personalities, with opposite wishes...and didn't even like each other. I was caught on the middle, and for my misfortune, I quite liked both of them. In truth, I liked John far too much. It would indubitably break me, sooner rather than later, but I could do nothing about it.

The smell of something burning broke that supremely awkward moment. "Sorry," I said, moving to throw the ruined dish away.

"Not that hungry anymore," the wolf assured. Then he startled me again, nuzzling my hand and saying, "I don't suppose you'd sleep with me."

"I can't," I said simply. Not just because of the technicalities. (He may be tailless, but how much wolf anatomy did John retail? I was sure humans were not made to accommodate knots. It was enough to make anyone terrified of intercourse.) Because_ John_ didn't want to sleep with me, he'd always been more than explicit about that, and I couldn't do that to him.

"Cuddling?" he queried hopefully, and I gave into him. We settled on the sofa, and I hugged him. It was so very much like being with Redbeard once again. How bad I had missed this.


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: nothing mine. John's pov. _

Waking up was very confusing. Contrarily to my usual, I was groggy, disoriented, and with the nagging feeling that something was wrong. Having my mind clear I realized I was on the sofa, naked, and with a (thankfully dressed) consulting detective draped over me.

I would have panicked, normally, but Sherlock was asleep – God knew that happened rarely enough –, I wasn't bloody, it didn't look like we'd slept together beyond the most literal of meanings … anything needed could wait a few moments. Actually, Sherlock's embrace was more comfortable than it had any right to be. I settled back into it. It wouldn't do to wake Sherlock up.

I couldn't stay still indefinitely, though. In the end, nature called and I had to extract myself from him (and I _wasn't_ disappointed, no, I wasn't). Sherlock offered an indistinct protest, and I fervently hoped that he would not wake up fully. The more sleep he got the better. Instead, when I went back – with a dressing gown on, and feeling a bit more normal – I found him alert.

I wordlessly went past him, and came back five minutes later with tea for the both of us, as I was strangely without any appetite, and very pointedly trying to ignore what I might have _eaten _late last night. Otherwise I'd surely be sick. Sherlock thanked me softly.

I took a sip, sitting on my chair, but then my worries slipped out. "I'm alive. Not that I'm complaining – well, not exactly..." I was complaining, in truth. But it seemed rude to do so. And perhaps Sherlock had a valid excuse. Oh God, what if I'd attacked him, bitten him, and then he'd changed too? Wait, no, he was dressed. But was this a true clue?

"There was no reason to eliminate you, John," my friend replied calmly.

"No reason?" I echoed heatedly. I was a monster. There was every fucking reason to put me down. Sherlock had even promised, and then he'd failed me. Yes, it seemed stupid to seethe against being alive, but I didn't want to be a bloodthirsty _thing. _

"You harmed no one, John. It hardly seemed fair to kill you over fur. Not even if you were largely shedding," Sherlock quipped.

I chuckled. What else was I supposed to do? "So are you saying that I'm a harmless little doggy?" I queried. It couldn't be that simple, could it? I'd seen the other werewolf. And our sources were coherent in describing werewolves as bloodthirsty, more often than not cannibalistic monsters. So why wouldn't_ I_ be?

"I wouldn't call you little, John. Your size was more than respectable. As for harmless...You could have hurt people, but you chose not to. Isn't that good enough?"

"I chose. All by myself?" I wondered. Was I a lazy werewolf? A peaceful one? Did such a thing even exist?

"I might have persuaded you. Offered an acceptable alternative. But you were surprisingly amenable to it. Really, I wouldn't mind spending a few nights each month ensuring that you don't do anything that you might regret later," Sherlock said with a half-smile.

I didn't know how to react to such a statement. Acceptable alternative? What kind of alternative would that be? Sherlock said that I had not harmed anyone, but what did I do? My memory of the time spent as wolf was muddled. That didn't terribly matter – I trusted Sherlock – but was still something to ponder. But I couldn't accept his offer. I couldn't burden him so. "Just a few nights, is it? You don't mind, you say. Of course you don't. You have no case going presently." Fine, it wasn't the kindest objection, but I needed him to realize that this couldn't possibly be a long-term arrangement. Not that I had another viable option (but suicide, that is) but self-delusion wouldn't do.

"I promise, John. I'm not about to leave you on your own on such a night. Not even if Moriarty came back to play," Sherlock assured me earnestly.

I hated it. I hated that the psychotic bastard was Sherlock's epitome of a tempting case. I let out a feral growl, for once conscious of what was happening. Perhaps because tonight would be a full moon too and the wolf was close to the surface. Or it might be because I agreed perfectly with with my inner monster. If Moriarty came back, I would happily do away with my humanity for a while and just rip him apart. I somehow doubted that his snipers were equipped with silver bullets.

"Relax, John. He's not here, and with a bit of luck, we won't see him ever again," Sherlock pleaded, his voice placating, almost hypnotic.

I calmed down, but only a fraction, more because of his tone than for his lies. I called him out on them, grumbling, "Oh no. he'll be back for you. Of course he will. And you'll love it again ." I had never complained about it before, but it didn't mean that I loathed it any less. (Moriarty treated mass murder like flirting, and Sherlock looked entirely too receptive to it. And I wasn't jealous, just – Moriarty?!) It didn't mean that the prospect of the madman's return didn't scare me.

"I don't think I would enjoy it, John," Sherlock said, "it stopped being fun when things got personal. I don't like being toyed with; at all."

Strangely, that did the trick and left me perfectly placid. Sherlock _didn't_ miss Moriarty, and apparently it was all I asked. Reasonable, in a way, since this month he'd been so focused on me, and I was afraid that he regretted that choice. In the past four weeks, he had rarely worked – only simple cases, that he would have spurned before, _too easy _– but he'd taken them for a short reprieve from our continuous worrying and studying. Nothing that would have commandeered his full dedication, though. That was reserved to my...situation.

"But the ridiculous notion that I would leave you alone when you needed me, you have no other objection to let me take care of you during your transformation?" Sherlock queried,looking at me with the put-upon air of when he had to deal with people's idiocy, but with a hint of something anxious underneath.

"It's not ridiculous," I protested. "It might not be a problem tonight or tomorrow, but I can't ask you to manage my full moons on a regular basis. It'd be too big of a burden, Sherlock. I can't possibly..."

I never got to end that sentence, because he cut in, "But John. I _want_ to." His eagerness surprised me. There was almost urgency in his voice.

"When you put it like this...You can always go back on this later, if your opinion changes, I suppose. It's more of a curiosity than another objection, but could you tell me what we did tonight?"

For a second, he looked almost sheepish. "Playing tag would be an adequate description. But you enjoyed it!"

"I'm sure I did," I reassured. I was really a big dog, uh? That was...relieving, actually. And why did Sherlock feel the need to justify himself for playing? He never did. There was no reason to do so. Especially if that was enough to stop me from hurting him or anyone else. Finally, I faced the worry that had eaten me up since I had woken up, even if Sherlock's assurances had quelled it somehow. "Did I eat something?"

"Sausages and pork fillet, John. After all that running, it didn't seem right to starve you. I didn't think you'd be contrary," Sherlock explained, looking vaguely puzzled. He'd sensed my unease, and apparently didn't understand it.

It was such a relief. Not only I hadn't hurt anyone. There would be no missing pets anywhere (as I'd feared), and nothing awful was in my stomach. "Uhm...no, I'm not adverse. I didn't know we had these in the fridge," I replied.

"If you'd rather have a different menu tonight, buy whatever you want, though I'd advise you to keep it meat-based," my friend suggested. Sidestepping the matter of how that had appeared in our kitchen entirely. (Mrs. Hudson hadn't seen me in my furry shape, had she?) But I let it slide. It didn't really matter.

After a few quiet moments, Sherlock blurted out, "Are we agreed then? Can I make sure your danger nights are fine like you do for mine? No need for silver bullets, poisons or other absurd projects of the same ilk?"

"Yes, we are. Of course we are. It's not like I _want _to be suicidal, Sherlock. And if I had to trust anyone with this, it's obvious it would be you. It would be you even if you hadn't been involved since the start. I just didn't expect things to be so...easy. But you'd figure that out, wouldn't you?"

Really, where would I be without Sherlock? (I knew, he probably knew too, and seriously it didn't bear thinking about. ) I smiled, overwhelmed by sheer affection. Why was almost everyone else who met him so blind to what a fantastic human being Sherlock was? And exactly what had I ever done to deserve having him in my life? Sure, I'd always tried to be good, but I must have accumulated quite the sterling karma to meet him. (No, I'd not momentarily forgotten how difficult he can sometimes be; I still stand by my word.)


	4. Chapter 4

_Disclaimer: nothing mine, but I still play. Sherlock's pov. Remember that English is my second language so if I blundered grammatically while in Sherlock's pov...Sorry, readers. Sorry Sherlock. I try my best. _

The affection in John's voice when he said, "You'd figure that out," was strong and entirely unwarranted. After all, I hadn't figured out what he wanted me to – how to heal him. Only what I needed myself, how to keep John in my life. I wasn't about to state that, though, or try to make him see the facts for what they were. I simply basked in it unashamedly.

Or I would have liked to, but the truth required a tribute, so I answered him, "Your consistently good character is to be credited for how easy it is to manage such times, John. My help would be useless otherwise." The praise surprised him, it was clear. Why would it? It was well deserved, and he should have realized it. Was it really so out of character for me to acknowledge it? Didn't he know how deeply grateful I was for his nature...for his mere existence?

Before we could be swamped in awkwardness, we were disturbed. _Mycroft. _I expected him, of course. Still, he could announce his coming sometimes. Knocking wouldn't be a bad idea. Sadly, Mrs. Hudson liked him for some unexplainable reason, and so he had free access to the house. She was still under the delusion that he cared for me, probably. I steeled myself for the upcoming confrontation.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" asked John, apparently annoyed too. It must have been the wolf who didn't appreciate the intrusion on his territory. He could be smart like that. Hopefully my brother wouldn't set his instincts off. Amusing as that would be, the last thing I needed was Mycroft rethinking his assessment of John. I wanted to believe that one instance wouldn't be enough for that, but better not to take risks.

"I was curious about yesterday's activities. Despite my surveillance, I have no idea where that dog came from," my brother said.

"Perhaps your surveillance isn't that perfect," I countered.

"So it seems," he agreed, frowning. That wasn't the right answer, and he knew, but a creature so big didn't just materialize out of thin air. It puzzled him, and he hated it. I couldn't explain, could I?

Half to retaliate against my secrecy, half to be simply cruel, he wondered loudly, "Do you really think it was wise for you to play around with that...creature?"

"What's the problem?" John asked.

"Sherlock likes dogs. It wouldn't do for him to get attached to someone else's pet. I'm sure you agree," Mycroft replied with a smug smirk.

"Unless he's allergic – and he isn't – I can't see the problem," my friend countered instead. Mycroft wasn't used to people disagreeing with him – other than I, that is – but thankfully he didn't expound on why I shouldn't be allowed to bond with a dog. (There was no reason at all beyond Mycroft's convenience. He didn't want me to sulk – as he'd put it – when I lost it again, and barring murderous criminals, at this point in time my life expectancy surpassed that of any dog. Maybe he'll get me a puppy when I'll be eighty, if I ever lived that long. With John to care for me, it was starting to look possible.)

"And anyway, you're too late, Mycroft. I've already agreed to take care of him for a few days," I announced curtly.

"You took up dog-sitting, did you now?" my brother queried, disbelieving.

"Yes. For a friend." I was piling errors one upon another. Dog-sitting _for days_ instead of nights would make him wonder where the dog was presently, and I had no answer to that. And saying _friend_...why didn't I say for a case? _Idiot. _

"Friend," Mycroft echoed with a snort.

"_Yes_," John cut in smoothly but with his don't-question-me captain voice. It was lovely that he was backing me up, but it was really unneeded. Mycroft turned to look at him. John taking my side could be in character, but captain John Watson was usually kept under the surface, and arguing with my brother didn't warrant his appearance. Perhaps the wolf pushed the alpha attitude out. (Not that I complained about it – captain Watson was a sight, as always.)

"Is something the matter, doctor Watson?" Mycroft queried. Of course something was the matter. And of course my brother couldn't pinpoint it. He was sane.

John laughed. "You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me," Mycroft bit back, annoyed.

"That thing tonight wasn't a dog. I thought you were more observant," John challenged. Not that I didn't love the jab, but was it really a good policy to bring him in our confidence?

Before I could protest, my friend revealed, "It was a wolf, Mycroft. A were one. It was _me_. So yes, favour to a friend."

"Again, Sherlock? You should really take better care of him if you don't want him to leave sooner rather than later," my brother remarked cuttingly. That was low. Very low. Even thinking that I had drugged him again – reasonable deduction, if untrue – hinting that John would leave was more than I could stand. Because it had been all too plausible (now, with John's problem, perhaps not as much), and I loathed the prospect with all my soul.

Before I could adequately retaliate, though, John growled, "I don't care if you two bicker, but don't drag me into that. There'll be no sooner or later or _ever_." I reflexively smiled at the comforting words.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft blurted out, used enough to my own volatile behaviour while on drugs to know it was better to behave. He gave me a very dirty look for playing with my flatmate.

I was entirely unfazed by it. I had too much practice for his disapproval to affect me still. I wordlessly telegraphed, "Believe what you wish."

He wouldn't have John removed for safety reasons or sent somewhere to be studied in order to replicate and use his change if he believed my friend was just the unfortunate victim of my experimentation.

I should have transmitted, "I do what I please," instead, because he telegraphed back, "Don't back his delusions up, Sherlock. It's childish, you know."

I would have liked so much for this to be a joke at my brother's expense. I always tried to school my features around Mycroft, to let him see what I wanted him to see. I did that around anyone, really, unless I enjoyed riling them up with my honest but inappropriate reactions. But he was better than me at deductions and I must have given away some of my wistfulness, because his eyes rolled, expressing clearly, "Not you too. I thought I had ensured that nobody would dare to sell you anything." That last sentence was absurd, of course, but it was better to let Mycroft have his own delusions.

He decided to sidestep the paranormal issue altogether. "So you're going to persist playing with this canine, whatever the species – I'm not going to argue about it – are you, Sherlock?" Disapproval dripped thick from his words.

"He's going to be a reoccurring fixture in my life, Mycroft. A monthly engagement. Get used to it," I stated, challenging him.

"Monthly," he echoed, with a raised eyebrow.

"Well duh. I thought Sherlock was the only one who was selectively ignorant, Mycroft. Didn't I say werewolf?" John interjected.

Mycroft went rigid with anger. He didn't appreciate being mocked. Nobody did, I think. "You don't want me to believe it, doctor," he said, smooth and dangerous, "Beasts get caged."

John growled, deep and feral, at the same time I hissed, "Don't you _dare_, Mycroft!"

My brother blinked, wondering if he'd gone too far provoking an unstable man. Or two, as it were.

"I have it all under control," I assured hastily.

"Do you, Sherlock?" Mycroft queried sternly.

"Yes, I do!" I cried out.

John was already calmer and looking sheepish at his outburst. "Honestly, Mycroft, I don't care if you believe me or not. I suppose you'll have evidence backing my claim sooner or later. I'm thankful that you've foregone the video surveillance inside the flat or you'd have it already. But what I need to understand is that you can't cage me without accepting the consequences. I'm more volatile now, as much as I loathe it. I might attack someone. And if I don't kill them I'll turn them and you'll have were-minions to manage. Isn't it too much of a hassle? Just let me be with Sherlock. He knows how to control me."

"And what if you attack him, doctor?" my brother queried conversationally. Humouring him or starting to consider the possibility of what we both were stating and pondering how to provide accordingly? I wasn't sure.

That shut John up, and I knew he was rethinking our pact, seriously considering to actually go along with Mycroft's ridiculous threat and get himself trapped. The wolf wouldn't like it, and I couldn't tolerate the prospect. It would mean failing both John and the wolf. So naturally I had to step in. "He _won't, _Mycroft," I said forcefully. I'm a pack mate. Obviously." Well, that was almost the truth. "He won't attack a pack mate. And I'm not helpless, and do not need you or anyone else sweeping in to defend me. Now shoo. Britain won't rule itself." It persuaded him, because my brother finally left.

"A pack mate?" John commented, amused.

"Problem?" I challenged.

"As long as I don't turn you, not one. Luckiest wolf in Britain."

I grinned. John appreciating my company would never cease to amaze and elate me at the same time.


	5. Chapter 5

_Disclaimer: not mine. Back to John's point of view. _

The second Mycroft left I could feel myself growing more relaxed. I usually liked him well enough – we cooperated all the time in keeping Sherlock safe and as well provided for as it could be done. But I had goaded him, and even without the embarrassing growling incident, I'd been downright rude. In a normal situation, I should have apologized. But Sherlock's relationship with his brother was strained enough that he was likely to be amused by my behaviour rather than disapprove it, and I told myself that with all the subservience he normally got a change, for a bit, could only do him good.

I hadn't expected Sherlock announcing his status as my pack mate, but I really liked the idea. For all that I absolutely didn't want to change him – you simply didn't mess with the level of perfection his brain had attained without ruining it – I let myself imagine him as a wolf. He'd be majestic, naturally, jet black, and hunting together would be not so different from what we already did and just as fun.

"Mrs. Hudson wouldn't last long as a wild canine though. Not with her hip. A pity, don't you agree?" Sherlock said.

"Of course," I replied. I stopped being weirded out when Sherlock guessed – sorry, deduced – my thoughts and interjected. The first few times it had happened it had seriously spooked me. It brought the 'you can't keep secrets from your flatmate' to a whole new level. Not just actions inevitably left clues that he read – sometimes, not even the sanctity of my mind was sheltered from his all-knowing gaze.

"If Mycroft didn't know how dangerous I could be – if he considered me a dog – what the hell did he want today? Why is it so unwise that you keep a dog according to him?" I queried, curious, leaving behind idle daydreams before he could scoff at them. Mycroft liked to be nosy, but his insistence today was so unjustified it was ridiculous.

"I had a dog as a child. I absolutely loved it. Then it was sent to a farm where he'd be happier – so they told me. I kept pestering everyone to go visit him – I didn't want to admit he could be happier without me, to begin with. Once, when I tried yet again to recruit Mycroft to my side, thinking my parents would agree if _he _asked, my brother explained that the dog had to be put down. I didn't take it well," my friend confessed. He looked almost sheepish admitting it, if because he'd believed his parents' lie or because he'd gotten emotional over a dog I wasn't sure. But I hoped dearly that Mycroft had been punished for revealing that – without much tact, I imagined.

"It would have been worrying if you had," I remarked. For all that Sherlock pretended to be a sociopath, I suspected – was pretty certain, and this proved it further – that his unfeeling condition was nothing but a front. Thank God he hadn't perfected his mask still as a child. That would be heart-breaking. "Did you sulk until they got you a new puppy?" I joked lightly.

Sherlock looked at me honestly scandalized – that's the right word. "Is that what normal people do?" he queried.

"Well...yes."

"It must have been Mycroft who talked my parents out of it, then. It would only be a temporary fix, after all, since the next dog would die too, and we'd be back there...who knows, maybe worse. But sometimes I'm inclined to agree with his assessment. And really, trying to replace him with anyone else looks so...shallow," my friend replied, his disdain at us ordinary people and our behaviour impossible to miss.

"You don't exactly replace him. It's not like your goldfish dies when you're out and your parents get you a new one hoping you won't notice the difference – though with you and Mycroft that wouldn't work, I bet. You'll always be fond of him, but you get a different one not to be lonely," I tried to explain.

"Speaking from direct experience, John?" he asked with a half smile.

"I wish. Harry and her cats came first, so..." I shrugged off the rest of the sentence. The principle was the same though. Surely Sherlock would realize that.

"Cats and dogs can live together in perfect harmony, despite the common misconception," my friend pointed out.

"I'm sure, but not _Harry _and dogs. She hates them," I said. "She's an idiot, I know," I added, in answer to a very pointed look. "I'm lucky that _you _are not a cat person," I joked. What would I have done without his support?

"It doesn't matter what you could have become, John. I wouldn't be put off by mere appearance. I thought that you knew me better than that," Sherlock objected, sounding almost offended.

"Right. Transport, of course. You don't mind yours, much less other people's," I appeased. "But you've got to admit, four legged, furry transport that you can get off from is somewhat unusual. You'd be in your rights if you had reacted badly."

"Considering how many sources we found, not that unusual. Who knows, maybe other people we know are managing their moons and we didn't notice it because we deemed such a condition impossible." Sherlock blushed lightly. The chance of having misjudged entirely someone was a prospect he really didn't like.

"Suggestions?" I quipped.

"Henry Knight. Maybe the hound wasn't an hallucination. Maybe it turned him," Sherlock hypothesized.

I laughed. It would be so delightfully ironic if he was a wolf, considering his persistent fear of dogs. "Maybe. And maybe the locals saw _him _around. Do you want to go back sometimes and investigate the time frame of the sightings?"

"Not really," he drawled. "I have my hands full with my own werewolf. No need to go searching for another. I'm satisfied as it is."

I smiled. "If possible I'd like to ask you for a tiny favour, on top of all the help you already give me. Would you record me? I'm curious to see what i look like. It feels weird not knowing anything about my transformation. At least I'll be able to rebuild more easily the memories I don't have if I know how to imagine myself."

Sherlock nodded. "Though you'll find your appearance to be exactly what you might expect. If I was aware of werecreatures' existence and met you around instead of being private to your transformation I'd suspect your true identity."

"I'm sure," I agreed.

"Would you mind if I played?" he asked then, and I was only too eager to give my consent. I had no idea what he needed to think about now (I hoped I wasn't the problem, though I suspected as much), but it was a blessed occasion when he did play his violin instead of torturing it. It made me wish to be more educated about classical music, so that I could name the pieces he executed. It was a suggestive, wistful tune, and I simply enjoyed the show until my stomach interrupted us with a grumble, making me blush.

"What do you fancy today?" I asked, determined to make him eat lunch. Now that I thought about it, I had a late dinner, but he'd probably not joined me. I was so stupid not making him breakfast!

"Italian?" he replied hesitantly, as if he expected an objection. I didn't protest, of course. Their food is great.

"Do you want to go out or do we ask Angelo to deliver?" That restaurant usually didn't, but that man for Sherlock would do pretty much anything.

"Let's go out," my friend replied. I wasn't sure how safe it would be today, but if Sherlock thought it was something we could attempt I was willing to go along. In ten minutes we were ready and on our way.

When Angelo suggested something guaranteed for his aphrodisiac effects (apparently, it being lunch had no bearing on his fantasies about how we spent the time) I was for a moment terrified that the wolf would snap. It was perfectly quiet, luckily, so instead I just rolled my eyes and grumbled,"We're not lovers." Even while I talked, I knew that Angelo's selective hearing would miss my words. Just like every other time.

As it was his wont, Sherlock let all insinuations slide without uttering a word. He really didn't care what others thought of him, uh? In secret, I admired that ability of his, but then it meant that I was left to worry about reputation for both of us, too. A bit of collaboration on his part would have allowed our lives to run that much smoothly – and I wasn't just talking about disabusing others of misconceptions.

Then again, if I didn't need to fret over Sherlock's behaviour, what it implied – mistakenly, he was amazingly innocent at times – or the reactions it sometimes caused, what would I worry about? It wasn't just following him on cases that kept me never bored, as I'd told Mycroft once. It was never quite knowing what mess I'd have to deal with next that kept me constantly, delightfully on my toes. Even if I made a point of complaining about each one, because Sherlock needed someone to tell him when he'd done something not good, otherwise he'd soon become totally unmanageable. Each time he caused problems many people just assumed he _was _not good, despite having abundant evidence to the contrary, and such willful blindness irked me to no end.

The lunch was a quiet affair. I'm grateful for our ability to simply enjoy eavh other's company, without the need for words. Since the start, there was never any awkwardness setting in between us during the occasional spell of silence.

It was odd; sometimes Sherlock was a toddler that needed to be entertained. (The fact that his entertainement usually required body parts was enough to spook silly people – but not me.) Other times, we required nothing more than to be aware of the reciprocal existence to be perfectly content.

I was very relieved that today – when I was keyed up because of the moon, and slightly scared deep inside of me of what was to come, despite Sherlock's reassurances that he'd take care of me, and how easy that was – happened to be such a quiet day. Was it just luck? (I was owed a quota of luck, surely.) Or was Sherlock being considerate? He had the ability to do so, contrarily to what even I had thought at first. That I happened to be the almost sole recipient of his thoughtfulness (with the occasional exception of Mrs. Hudson) was at the same time deeply flattering and intensely touching. And, of course, infinitely precious.

_P.S. I couldn't resist the jab at Henry Knight given that Russell Tovey, the actor plays his role, played the role of a werewolf in the series Being Human. I'm laughing every time I remember it. _


End file.
